Sick
by Phx
Summary: For Trasan. Set early first season. Sam is sick.


_I know this has been done a hundred times, but not by me. And this was a request by a friend who wanted me to write a feveredSam, so I did. _

_To: Trasan. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own them and make no money from them. But sometimes I wish I could sue them for all the heartbreak they bring me._

**Sick**

A cold hand on his forehead wakes Sam.

He is sick and they are holed up in a non-descript cheap motel room. He has a dim memory of stumbling into the room and falling face first onto a bed. He is on his back now, stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, and tucked under a blanket. It scratches at his chin and he knows he didn't put it there. The hand forces the heat back for a moment and Sam lets out a sigh of relief. It is temporary and new heat burns in to replace it as soon as the hand is gone.

Oh God, he hates being sick.

A warm smile greets him when fever dulled eyes finally slit open and Sam sees his brother leaning over him. He blinks slowly because there are two of Dean and the world is just not ready for that. Sam is not ready for that. He barely survived his childhood with one Dean. He blinks again, scratch that, he barely survived his childhood because of one. Maybe two would be better…

"You awake this time?" The quiet words are gruff but the voice is concerned. That seems to be his brother's default setting since Stanford. Sam still can't think of Jessica and breathe so instead he tries to answer.

He whimpers, "Dnnn…," and is embarrassed. That's the best he can do and then his stomach hurtles towards his throat and thank God Dean has the gift of foresight.

A firm grip and a comforting hand are on his back as he heaves into a trashcan; there was no way he'd have made it to the bathroom unless he was carried. And there was no way Sam was being carried as long as he could breathe. He might have let his brother undress him (and really he can't even remember that so maybe he did put up some sort of protest) but he still had at least one shred of his dignity left. Even if a string of saliva hanging from his bottom lip made his brother grimace and offer him a facecloth, suggested otherwise. Being sick sucked.

Sam doesn't remember anything for a while after that. He isn't asleep though; the fever burning through his body won't let him rest. Not while it can torment instead. Sam shakes hard and his teeth hurt but it doesn't stop him from closing his eyes and pretending to sleep. Ruse, it's all he has left. Subterfuge with abs…

Breathing becomes difficult, tepid air grating over an acid sore throat and then something soothing and hot, but not too hot, is held to his lips and he sips without question when Dean says, "Drink." The sweet Ambrosia calms his throat and helps open his congested airways. His brother calls it broth and since Dean is definitely not Zeus, Sam takes his word for it. There isn't much that Dean tells him that Sam doesn't believe really, not the important stuff anyways.

His fever climbs. Delirium is chasing him now. Shadows cry to him from the ceiling; dead girlfriends with their stomachs slashed and their hair on fire taunt him, twisting and reaching, calling to him. Condemning him. Sam cries out but Dean is there, eyes fierce, hands gentle, "Hey, hey, it's okay," and the shadows retreat. A coward in the face of his brother's devotion.

"It's not real, kiddo." The words cut through his panic as careful restraint stills his flailing body. He is trembling hard. "It's just the fever, Sammy, I promise you… it's not real."

But Sam wants some of this to be real. He wants his brother here.

He murmurs the words, "Don't go," but no sound leaves his throat and then his eyes slowly start to close, weighed down by the drums pounding in the back of his head. Stubbornly he clutches desperately, reaching out, needing, until his trembling fingers are gripped in a strong, warm hand. Dean says something about only girls hold hands even as he squeezes reassuringly and Sam is too fever worn to answer even if he'd like to tell Dean to just shut up and paint his nails pink.

Something cool is settled across his aching forehead and Sam moans softly. It feels so good.

"Go to sleep," big brother commands and Sam finally does, sinking into a healing sleep knowing that as long as he is holding on, Dean will never let go… even if the older hunter will complain bitterly about it later.

But for now, Sam is still sick.

The End


End file.
